“They’ve got a job to do too, buddy,” Napoleon said.
I looked over at him and sighed. “I know.”
As one, we turned and walked out of the yard. It wasn’t even noon and the day was only just beginning. I knew the remainder of the day would be filled with reports and paperwork. The idea of meeting with a bureau psychologist to go over the incident set my teeth on edge, but there was nothing I could do about it. I held out very little hope that my past wouldn’t come roaring back into the forefront of my mind at some point which is why I dreaded meeting with bureau psychologists. Napoleon had dubbed them “brain pickers” for a very good reason. And though I was well aware that a psychologist’s report could deprive me of my career if they found my answers unacceptable in any way, I understood that crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s was important whenever a suspect died during an operation.
Napoleon and I strolled into our office just after one, only stopping short when I spotted LAPD detectives Cassidy Ryan and Mike Williams waiting for me. I grinned at the pair. “Cassidy…what’s up?” We shook hands but something in his serious expression made my smile falter. “Somethin’ wrong?” I asked, pulling my hand out of his.
He let out a breath and exchanged a long look with his partner before turning back to me. His nod was answer enough. “I’m afraid so, Patsy. I know you just came back from a field op, but we need to talk to you for just a minute.”
I waved them into chairs. “Pull up a pew.” I didn’t wait to see them comply as Napoleon and I dragged our own chairs over to them. As soon as we were settled, I sat forward, puzzled at their appearance in the office. “What’s the story, Cassidy?”
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it out to me and I opened it, feeling a moment of confusion as I looked down at a sketch of a man who closely resembled Weston. I stared at the picture dumbly for a few seconds before Napoleon took it out of my hands.
“That looks exactly like that homeless guy you were with last night, Patsy.”
I frowned over at Napoleon for a few seconds, hating his description of Wes before glancing back at Cassidy. “What is this?”
“It’s a police sketch of the man little Marigold Bishop saw.”
“Marigold Bishop?”
Cassidy and Mike wore similar frowns. “Don’t you remember the conversation we had with Father Gilmartin last night?”
“Of course, I do.” I tried to ignore the rush of blood to my head, making me feel dizzy as I tried to recall the exactconversation. Something in my expression must have made them doubt my recall, because Cassidy continued.
“Father Gilmartin told us that the men who accosted him wanted him to pass a message on to Marigold Bishop’s mother, Betty…something about them hurting Marigold if the little girl kept talking about what she’d seen.”
I took the paper out of Napoleon’s hand and shook it at Cassidy. “I remember that, but I don’t know what this could possibly have to do with Wes.”
“Cass and I found Betty Bishop and her daughter this morning, Patsy. They’d been sleeping in a shelter,” Mike said patiently.
“Okay, good. At least they weren’t out in the cold. ‘Twas chilly last night.”
“Not the point,” Mike said.
I frowned, trying not to sound impatient. “Then get to it, Michael.”
“Patsy—” I glanced at Napoleon, noting his own frown as Mike started talking again.
“We told Betty Bishop that Father Gilmartin was assaulted and that the men who did it said they wanted him to pass a message to her…the message that if Marigold didn’t keep her mouth shut about what she’d seen, they’d hurt her,” Cassidy said.
“Right. I was there,” I said.
“Okay, so when we talked to Marigold’s mother, we asked her if we could talk to the little girl to try to figure out what she might have seen that would make those men attack the priest,” Cassidy continued.
“What are ya on about?” I asked, growing frustrated. “So, did ya talk to the wee one?”
“We did. It took a bit of work, but as best we can make out—”
“From a four-year-old,” I interjected.
Cassidy blew out a long breath. “Yes, Patsy, from a four-year-old. Anyway, what she described was a homicide.”
“A homicide?” Napoleon asked before I could form the words.
Cassidy looked at him. “Marigold told us that a large man hurt a man very badly…her words not ours.”
“And how does Wes fit into this?” I asked, dreading the answer.
